Wake Up Call
by BritishTraveller
Summary: Alfred comes home from his job early in the morning, expecting his messy haired British boyfriend to be up waiting for him. Neither Arthur or Alfred could ever have foreseen what was to happen next... UsUk/FrUk one shot.


**This isn't the best, but I love Maroon 5 and decided to write a Hetalia based FanFic about their song, 'Wake Up Call'. **

**Hope you like!**

**Pretty please review! **

* * *

"You lied to me," mumbled Alfred, a tall, muscular American boy as he sighed and threw his head back against the head rest of his car. He closed his eyes briefly wondering what on Earth would have possessed his beautiful British boyfriend to lie to him. Opening his eyes again, he shot said Brit, Arthur, a deathly glare.

Arthur looked down and fidgeted slightly under his boyfriend's gaze, "I-I know..."

"You lie about a lot." added the American, looking back up out of the dirty window screen before the two.

The Brit sighed deeply, thinking of what to say. He had no idea what to do in front of the other any more; it was like there was no love left. "I was just trying to-"

"Don't worry about it," interrupted Alfred, who'd shuffled himself into a better driving position and had a firm hold of the wheel of his white convertible. "this whole thing's probably my fault anyway."

Arthur looked at Alfred, fixing his emerald eyes onto sky blue ones for the first time in a while. The Brit quickly looked away once he'd seen the look of hurt and pain in Alfred's once beautiful and full of life eyes.

Everything in Arthur and Alfred's lives seemed perfect until that moment.

Sure, the two had ups and downs. Who doesn't? But in all honesty, both of the English speakers never expected anything like this.

-.-.-.-

Alfred F. Jones was the perfect boyfriend. Really, he was.

If someone were to make a diagram of all things Alfred was loved for, it'd go on for ages. The excitable American was well known for his great sense of humour, sense of style, being affectionate and spoiling his partners rotten. Alfred never gave answers like 'maybe', it was always 'yes' or 'no' with the man, unless he could give a more meaningful answer, of course. He lived on raw emotion. Living the moment, doing things on a whim. But no one expected what Alfred did - the hideous crime that'd haunt him and Arthur forever.

Anybody who was anybody wanted to be with Alfred F. Jones, but there was only one who said American wanted to spend his amazing live with; Arthur Kirkland.

Arthur Kirkland was your stereotypical Briton. He loved tea, moaning, was patriotic and had an excellent education. Mr Kirkland had a secret though, a few, really.

He was forever cheating on Alfred.

Now don't get the Englishman wrong, he loved the American! He did! With all of his heart. Truth be told, he couldn't function properly without him. But that didn't stop him sleeping with Francis Bonnefoy, the irresistible French man that Alfred despised.

-.-.-.-

It was a normal Saturday morning when Alfred got home from his night shift. It'd just turned 3 o'clock; the usual time he got back.

Kicking off his tattered red Converse and throwing his bag down in the long hallway, he rubbed his sore blue eyes underneath his glasses with the soft palms of his hands.

Alfred made his way to the kitchen, opening a cupboard and grabbing a tall clear glass like usual. He dragged himself over to the tap and turned it, listening as cool water poured out and drummed against the metallic sink with each drop.

He waited until his glass was half full and gulped it down, eager to quench his thirst. Setting the now dirty glass down in the sink, he turned and made his way to the main bedroom, where his gorgeous messy haired blonde boyfriend would be sound asleep with a precious look on his face waiting for him to arrive.

As Alfred neared, he was sure he could hear soft pants coming from inside. _Aw Artie, couldn't wait for me to come home and screw you, could you?_ thought Alfred as he kicked open the door, expecting the most sexually alluring scene in the world.

The sight that greeted him was a little different, though.

Lay there, on Alfred and Arthur's bed, was Arthur.

Not just Arthur, though. Oh, no.

The blonde Brit was indeed lay on the soft mattress, sprawled out on the bed covers, with a certain Frenchman straddling him.

Arthur was a groaning mess beneath Francis, panting and moaning every time the blonde Frenchie kissed and nipped his body. He'd left many a love bite, too.

"You just _love_ that, don't you, mon ange?" asked Francis, who was letting out little growls as he licked the Brit's jawline.

"M'hm- Oh, God, Francis... D-don't... Don't stop..." panted Arthur, who was rubbing himself against the Frenchman.

Alfred did **not **know what to do at all. His mouth was slightly agape and his fists were clenched, "Ahem."

Arthur flinched at the sudden noise and shrunk back, his face frozen. _Aw, shit._ he thought.

Francis forcefully kissed Arthur once more and looked over his shoulder at the American, before turning over onto his side and smirking.

Alfred strode over to the Frenchman, growling. Francis got himself up, encouraging the fight. Alfred pushed him backwards, shouting obscure things to the intruder. Arthur, who was still a little shocked, got up, too. Deciding to intervene and break up the fight that was now occurring in their bedroom, he shouted "Stop! Both of you!". Neither of them listened. The Frenchman huffed and slapped Arthur across the face, leaving a red hand print on his pale face. Alfred growled and ran out, going to find his weapon. When he came back, he found Francis kicking Arthur, eventually throwing him onto the bed.

"If you needed love... W-well then ask for love, you idiot!" Alfred growled, his anger rising. "Don't you care about me any more?" he asked, "_Don't you care about me?_"

When he received no answer, he shook his head and smiled a little. "I don't think do."

Slowly, the American pulled out his gun. His second most prized possession, after Arthur. He raised it, eyes fixated on the two on the bed._ His_ bed._ Their_ bed. "I could have given love. Now, I'm taking love."

Francis' cerulean eyes flushed with horror and he quickly jumped backwards. His smirk turned into a snarl and he gave Alfred a dirty look. "Pathetic American! What are you going to do?" he asked, looking from the American to the bruised Brit beside him.

Said Brit was frozen in place, his hair ruffled and shirt half way up his torso. "A-Al-" he started, he looked hurt, his eyes and expression showed it.

Outstretching his left arm, the sleek black gun in hand, Alfred turned to the French man.

The two rivals locked eyes, and Alfred shook his head sadly. "It's not my fault, you know, 'cause you both deserve what's coming now... So don't say a word."

Arthur flinched as he heard the unmistakable noise of gunshot. Not soon after, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground could be heard.

He turned quickly, worried as to what the two had done. Looking down, he screamed as he noticed the six foot man was dead. Dead on their bedroom floor. Out cold, blood pouring out him endlessly. "Wh-why?!" he cried, his mouth open in a perfect 'O' shape.

"He came without a warning, Artie, so I had to shoot him dead. Don't worry, he won't come around here any more." replied Alfred, who'd smirk had faded and was instead replaced with a soft smile.

Arthur was at loss for words. Using the back of his right hand, he wiped away the tears that'd been streaming down his porcelain face. The British boy was hit with a flood of emotions and started reliving the moments again and again. He was brought back down to Earth suddenly, though, by Alfred's strong voice.

"I would've _bled_ to make you happy. Y-you didn't need to treat me that way! Now you beat me at my own game."

"Al, I-I-I'm sorry... I am! W-what do we do?"

"Art, I just caught you, _in the morning_, with _another_ one in _my_ bed. Don't you care about me any more?" inquired the American. His eyes were no longer shining blue and bright, but were instead a darker colour; full of malice and anger. There was also something else there that Arthur couldn't quite pinpoint, but he assumed it was just hate. "Come around here, Art; I don't feel so bad."

In truth, Arthur hated himself for doing what he did. Why shouldn't Al feel the same? Nevertheless, he begrudgingly shuffled himself towards his (living) lover and slumped, feeling even worse about himself. Somebody had died from his actions, and Francis of all people!

Alfred noticed the change in Arthur's actions and pulled the slightly shorter boy closer. He kissed the Brit's temple and sighed, "I'm so sorry, darling. Did I do the wrong thing?" glancing over towards Francis he scrunched his eyes together and sighed, "Oh, what was I thinking? Is his heart still beating?"

After an hour or two, Alfred realised that he _had_ to get rid of Francis' body. And pronto.

He dragged the body onto the bedroom carpet, it was ugly anyway, and pulled the carpet out of the apartment.

Considering how quiet the building complex was, there was no chance of them being seen dragging the body out, but nevertheless, the two lovers looked both ways quickly before stuffing the body in the boot (trunk) of Alfred's convertible.

Once they made sure the coast was clear, the two slid themselves in the front seats, Arthur still shaking from the earlier memory. "I'm sorry, Alfie. I love you. I guess it doesn't matter now... I mean, we both screwed up." Arthur said meekly, linking his slender fingers with Alfred's.

"You wanna do this?"

"Do we have a choice?" asked the Brit, giving Alfred a small smile of reassurance.


End file.
